


Stay Beside Me, Come What May

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29326119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: I finally finished watching the show! But I wrote this after ep. 6. Because I love them so much and needed to make them be happy. Now after it's done, I need to make them happy some more. It was so good. And so sad. All fix it fic from now on!This was not beta read.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Henry "Harry" Peglar
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	Stay Beside Me, Come What May

**Author's Note:**

> I finally finished watching the show! But I wrote this after ep. 6. Because I love them so much and needed to make them be happy. Now after it's done, I need to make them happy some more. It was so good. And so sad. All fix it fic from now on!
> 
> This was not beta read.

It is a thing that remains unspoken. Through all the years of their acquaintance. Never once has a word of what they feel for each other been uttered from either man’s lips. 

And yet they still say it, again and again, in looks, in small touches. In gratitude over books passed between chilled fingers, and in glances that linger a little longer than they ought to. 

When John Bridgens tells Harry Pegler of his plan to desert the ship, to take some supplies and flee, with the hope of traveling north to meet a dreamed of but unpromised rescue party, Harry feels a thrill of excitement burst to life in the pit of his stomach. Why shouldn't they run? Run off together and escape this creaking tomb, embedded in the ice? If they perish out on the endless tundra, then they’ll perish together. If they reach civilization, they can tell the Royal Navy exactly the location of the Erebus and the Terror. But sitting here, waiting to be picked off by that horrible creature, or starving to death in the cold hull of a ship, is not how Harry wants to leave this world. 

Harry wraps his hand around the edge of the book that John is giving him, folds the tips of his fingers against the tips of John’s and feels John’s thumb come up to press against his skin. This small touch, like all of their small touches, their soft looks, causes warmth to pool in his chest. He sometimes thinks that if it were not for thoughts of John, for their infrequent chats and sustained glances, that he’d never feel warmth at all on this endless, hellish expedition. 

They leave a week later, at midnight. Climbing over the stern and down a series of ropes when the sentries are not looking, crunching off into the icy wilderness, side by side. 

By day, what little of it there is, they trudge endlessly over the ice, carrying packs of food and extra blankets. At first, they fear that the creature that haunts Terror and Erebus will find them and kill them, but after a few days, when they are left alone, they slowly relax. Stop jumping every time the wind howls or the ice creaks beneath their feet.

They march long into the arctic night each night, digging their way into shelves of snow and sheltering there, huddled together for warmth to steal a few short hours of sleep before getting up and marching onward again. If they rest too long, they run the risk of freezing to death in their sleep.

It is only a few days later when Harry begins to cough, a wracking, wet cough that feels as if it pulls his heart and lungs up out of his mouth whenever a fit catches him. John’s eyes cloud with worry, but they press on. Two days later, Harry feels his legs give out, and after a long spate of coughing, his vision blackens and he sinks down into the dark. 

He wakes to John slapping at his face and calling his name, begging him not to sleep, calling him things that make him feel a shiver of nervous shame from within his half-conscious stupor. Saying _Stay awake my darling. Stay awake for me. Please my love._

 _My darling, my love,_ Words that are far too bold for John to say whilst they are on board the ships. If he’s overheard, it’ll be both their hides for sure. He tells John to be quiet with the last of his strength and sinks back into oblivion.

He wakes many more times afterward, and each time, John is there. Each time, they are somewhere different, and Harry is so very tired that he can only keep his eyes open for a few moments. He experiences the world in small blinks of consciousness, among a sea of fitful, dreamless sleep.

He wakes, and after he coughs and coughs as if he is dying, he notices belatedly that he is warm. It is mostly dark, and he can hear the wind howling endlessly nearby. There is the smell of animal fat and smoke, and a low chanting in some foreign language. Someone is pushing a cup of some foul smelling liquid against his mouth. He takes one gulp, then another, then splutters and chokes. The chokes turn to more coughs. There are John’s dark eyes, peering at him worriedly from within the hood of a fur cloak. After he has coughed himself to exhaustion, he sleeps again. 

He wakes, and now he must be in a hammock, for his bed rocks gently from side to side. It takes him a while to realize that he is on board a ship. A ship that _moves_. He hasn’t been on board a ship that actually sailed through the water for years. For what feels like an eternity. It is a marvelous, miraculous feeling. Perhaps they have returned to the ships and have somehow freed themselves from the ice? His brain is fuzzy and he can’t quite recall where he’s supposed to be.

He looks beside him and there, slumped in a chair next to his bed is John. Ever present. He is asleep, chin on chest, snoring gently. Harry is as weak as a newborn puppy and he cannot find the strength to reach out and touch his friend before he falls back to sleep. 

He wakes, covered with sweat, shaking as if his bones will rattle themselves apart. He is lying on a wooden slab, and a man peers at him. A doctor from the look of him, as he wears an apron and the coolly detached expression of a medical man. But not Macdonald, nor Goodsir, nor Stanley. It is a man he does not recognize. The doctor presses a cup of what smells like broth to Harry's lips and Harry takes a few small gulps before he cannot stand the taste any longer. Food revolts him in this weakened, fevered state.

He is so cold, and it’s strange to be so cold while so covered in sweat. “John,” he calls out in a cracked whisper. “Where is John?”

“Your friend will return momentarily, lad. Just you sleep now. The fever will break soon.”

Hearing that John is not far away allows him to rest. He lets the doctor drape him in woolen blankets and again loses himself to the blackness of sleep. 

He wakes, and feels more like himself. He is in the dark, and he can tell by the air, the fullness of it, and how clean it is, that he is in a large room, rather than the stinking hull of a small cabin aboard a ship. He is blissfully warm, and lying under many soft blankets. Perhaps he has died, out on the ice, and this is some pleasant afterlife in which he finds himself? This time, when he falls back under, it isn’t to the black waters of sick-sleep, but more a natural drifting off of a man who hasn’t eaten or slept nearly enough in the last two years.

He wakes and feels far better. No longer shivery and not nearly as weak. His throat is dry and there’s a glass of water by the bed. He reaches out to grab it, gulps it down in great, relieved swallows. He struggles into a sitting position and notes that he is in a dressing gown, and it appears someone has bathed him, for he catches a soothing whiff of lavender soap.

He is thinner than he remembers being, his belly almost a concave dip between his jutting hip bones, and his feet are wrapped in bandages or thick stockings. The bed does not move and sway beneath him, and all is very quiet. He thinks he might be on land, and not aboard a ship. And not out on the frozen tundra either, and such a thing is a miracle that he cannot take the time or energy to contemplate just yet. 

The door swings open and John is standing in the doorway, looking gaunt, and tired but well dressed in clean shirtsleeves and a waistcoat and trousers of some good, dark material. His face lights up when he sees Harry, and he rushes to the bedside, falls to his knees and grasps Harry’s hand in both of his own. “Harry! Harry, you're awake!” he cries in a harsh whisper. John looks over his shoulder, guiltily for a moment, and regrettably lets go of Harry’s hand to get back up and shut and lock the door behind him before returning. He pulls a small chair to Harry’s bedside and sits on it, takes up Harry’s hand again and kisses it. 

Harry is struck speechless. “John,” he says, in a voice full of wonder. “Are we dead? Is this Heaven?”

John, who still has Harry’s hand pressed to his mouth, smiles against Harry’s knuckles. “No, we are not dead. It is a long story, but we are back in England. Guests in the house of Mrs. Franklin. I shall tell you all about it later, once you’ve rested up some more.”

“I feel as if I have been resting for centuries,” Harry remarks. John has still not let go of his hand, though unfortunately, he has ceased to press it to his lips. Still it feels better than anything he thinks he’s ever felt before, John’s hand, holding onto his, so tightly. 

“You fell ill, out on the ice,” John says. “Pneumonia I think. For a while, I was not certain you would pull through. That either of us would.”

“Well then, I am very grateful to still be alive,” Harry says wryly. “And you John, how do you fare? Were you ill as well?” 

“I was not. Though, I have three less toes than I had when we left Erebus. And you, I am sad to say have two less.” He nods his head at the small humps of Harry’s bandaged feet beneath the covers. 

Harry sighs. “It is better to lose a few toes than one’s entire self.” 

John nods at this. He nods and keeps nodding, until the nods turn to sobs, and then he is weeping. He bends over Harry’s hand, still clasped in his and his shoulders shake with great, wracking sobs. 

“John! Oh John, do not cry… why are you crying?” Harry, reaches out, hesitates a moment with his hand hovering above John’s bent head, but then throws caution to the wind and drives his fingers into John’s thick, steel gray hair. At his touch, John only weeps harder. Harry strokes his hair, whispers shushing noises, pats his back and waits for the storm to pass. Eventually, John’s shoulders cease shaking and he calms. He sniffles wetly and sits up, releasing Harry’s hand and looking sheepish as he searches in his pocket and comes out with a white handkerchief. He wipes at his eyes and nose, runs fingers through his hair and tugs at his waistcoat before he looks up at Harry with red rimmed eyes. 

“I thought that perhaps I might lose you,” he says, his voice thick with grief, tight with worry. 

“And yet, you have not. Here I am,” Harry says, surprised as his own vision blurs with unshed tears. “Not even a frozen wasteland and a bout of pneumonia could keep me from finishing Voltaire, to say nothing of Anabasis.” He lets out a laugh that cracks and breaks in the middle. 

John laughs too, a small wounded noise, as if his throat is so unused to joy that it closes on the sound and refuses to allow it full passage out of his mouth. His eyes are on Harry’s, dark and sad and pleading. 

Before he can stop himself, Harry surges forward, grasps John’s face in his hands and pulls their lips together. John lets out a ragged noise and kisses him back fiercely, an urgent press of mouth against mouth.

Harry had meant it to be a brotherly kiss, an affirmation of life, a gentle sharing of affection, but all of that is soon burned away by a sharp flush of desire as their mouths open against each other. The kiss grows deeper and infinitely more urgent. He groans and hears John groan in response. Their arms come around one another, each gripping the other tightly, so tightly, and Harry is reminded of their embrace after the fire. The sob of gratitude that had escaped his throat as they’d crushed themselves together. The knowledge that they were both still alive, might still be allowed to share books and conversations and those blasted, soft, pointless looks for a little while longer. 

And now John is here, in his arms, his lips hot and insistent and desperate against Harry’s lips.

John breaks the kiss a moment later to look intently into Harry’s eyes, holding him still when he chases John’s mouth and tries to keep kissing him. “I love you,” he says it harshly, with purpose, like an oath. “I love you,” he repeats. “Jesus Harry, I love you.” 

“I love you too, John,” Harry’s fingers, tremble as they stroke down John’s bristly jaw, trying to tug him back into another kiss. “I always have,” he whispers fervently as he finally succeeds in bringing John’s lips back to his own. John succumbs with a rough noise and they kiss and kiss and kiss. 

Eventually, Harry moves aside and John climbs in bed beside him. They lay together, fronts pressed together, still kissing deliriously as John’s hands roams hungrily over Harry’s back and down to grip his waist. When John’s hand slides lower, closes hot and tight on Harry’s buttock, Harry jerks and gasps. “Fuck,” he whispers, “oh fuck,” and bucks against John. 

“We’re safe here," John whispers back. “We’ve been given a set of rooms, and Mrs. Franklin knows not to disturb us. She knows we might frighten easily and need our rest. No one will interrupt us.” he pauses then, an uncertain look creeping across his face. "you are still weak," he says.

"I will be just fine," Harry replies. His hands are at the buttons of John's shirt before he even finishes speaking. Yes he is weak, but he has John Bridgens in his bed, and so he'll bloody well find strength enough to do what he wants.

Together they hurriedly undo John’s waistcoat and shirt and pull up Harry’s nightdress until they can press the skin of their chests and bellies together. Harry cries out softly at the sensation, the warm skin he’s dreamed of touching for years, finally sliding against his own. The feel of John’s rough chest hair and the stiff column of his cock inside his breeches against Harry’s upper thigh. It’s all too much, too good.

He recaptures John’s mouth, and they share a low moan, full of need. John is quick to unbutton himself, reach inside his pants and pull out his cock, stiff and red. He pushes his trousers down his thighs, out of the way, and they slot themselves together, cock against cock, belly against belly, mouth against mouth. 

It is an awkward, desperate sort of congress, this rutting against each other, each half dressed and underfed and half mad with lust and longing. The velvety soft skin of John’s cockstand against Harry’s belly and his own cock, rubbing up against John’s and John's belly, it is astoundingly erotic. And the taste of John’s mouth, the smell of his body, the feel of his soft, thick hair clenched in Harry’s fists, it overwhelms him quickly. With a few more wild juts of his hips he explodes in pleasure, feels himself spill hotly between their bellies. He spends silently, his mouth gaping, eyes screwed shut. Over the years, he's learned to do this without a sound.

“Oh Harry, darling, yes, yes,” John coaches him through it, whispering words of encouragement against his mouth as Harry shivers his way through.

Afterward, John continues his movements, thrusting against the slickness Harry has made, and a few moments later, he gasps his peak against Harry's neck, his hips juddering, his breath coming in small hot huffs. "Christ, Harry," he groans out on the tail end of his final thrust, and then rests, panting and warm in Harry's arms.

They lay like that for a few long moments, sharing their body's heat, touching softly. Harry finds John's ear with his lips, kisses the earlobe tenderly and whispers "I love you." John hums happily and nuzzles closer.

It is then that they remember the swiftly cooling mess between them, and John groans and frowns. He climbs stiffly out of bed, and returns with a flannel from a nearby cupboard. He cleans them both up as best he can before removing the rest of his clothes and settling back in bed, wrapped in the circle of Harry's arms. 

They lay there for a long time, gazing drunkenly into each other's eyes, skating reverent fingertips down arms and across the plane of each other's backs. They kiss softly when the mood takes them, and again, Harry thinks this feels far too close to Heaven.

When Harry's eyes begin to drift closed, he feels John's lips on his brow, then hears John's voice, low and soft and achingly fond. "In the morning, I plan to feed you up good. Put some meat back on your bones. Rest now my darling. I'll see you soon".

He moves to leave the bed, and Harry, feeling a sudden jolt of apprehension reaches to keep him there. John takes his hand, squeezes it and leans down to kiss him once more on the mouth, a soft press. "All will be well my love," he whispers. "I can't sleep here, even if we lock the door, it is not wise. Later, I will tell Mrs. Franklin that we suffer from nightmares, and that it is best if we share a room. But you must rest now."

Harry nods regretfully. He feels an urge to argue his case, to try and keep John in his arms, but already he is drifting back off to sleep. "Love you," he murmurs with the last of his strength.

"And I you," he hears before he sinks back to sleep. He is smiling and warm, lulled in his slumber by the smell of John, still lingering on his pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Just pretend that the boys didn't hear Crozier's speech about leaving the ships and marching south just before the fire started.


End file.
